“Good Lord!”
“Only a third of the usual number of passengers were aboard,” Edward continued. “Otherwise, the casualties would have been greater. Last night, my train arrived at Euston Station an hour after the crash. But in that limited time, reports had already sped from Paddington to Euston, causing a panic. Passengers who had tickets for the next train didn’t board it. My business associates include officers of several railway companies. This morning, they summoned me to an emergency meeting at the Royal Exchange.”
“A fire?” De Quincey asked, his blue eyes sparkling with interest. “Was it deliberate or an accident?”
“The police don’t know yet, but the rumors are that the blasted Russians did it. Excuse my language, but tomorrow, the effect on the stock market will be disastrous. The financial damage will cascade onto shopkeepers, innkeepers, grocers, tailors, and even potboys in taverns. Carolyn, because of the emergency meeting, I can’t accompany you. I ask you to reconsider and stay here until the situation is resolved.”
“And surrender to fear? Hardly. I promised our daughter that I’d visit her today, and with all the trouble she has, I don’t intend to disappoint her. Thomas and Emily, I promise I won’t be offended if you remain in London, but—”
“Remain in London?” Emily said. “Perish the thought. We agreed to accompany you, and that’s what we’ll do. We’re looking forward to meeting your daughter. And the doctor at the clinic. Isn’t that right, Father?”
The area around Euston Station normally teemed with cabs, but today, theirs was one of the few to be found. The wind blew dust and debris through the massive Roman arch. Two dogs ran past, so pathetically thin that their ribs showed. Otherwise, except for a couple of desperate beggars in ragged Crimean War uniforms, the expansive courtyard was deserted. De Quincey, Emily, and Carolyn hurried from the cab, a few drops of rain pelting them as they ran inside the station.
The silence of the Great Hall felt ominous. The rumble of the copper-covered door reverberated from pillars and granite staircases that normally were barely visible because of bustling passengers.
At a booth, a spectacled ticket seller looked shocked to see them.
“Three first-class tickets to Sedwick Hill, please.” Carolyn put coins on the counter.
“Are you certain, madam?” the astonished man asked.
“To Sedwick Hill. Yes,” Carolyn responded. “That’s where we wish to go.”
“That’s not what I meant. Are you certain you wish to go anywhere?”
“Why would you ask so strange a question?”
“Haven’t you heard about all the trouble yesterday?”
“And on Thursday night also,” Carolyn said. “But that’s no guarantee that something untoward will happen today. Please give us our tickets.”
“You mean you know about everything, and you still intend to board a train?”
“My dear man, you don’t sound as though you’re employed here.”
“By tomorrow, I probably won’t be. You’re the first people I’ve seen all morning. At this rate, I’ll be out of work.”
“Passengers will return when they realize they’re being foolish,” Carolyn told him. “Our tickets, please.”
“Happily, madam. I look forward to seeing more people with your attitude.”
The three of them went through a short, dusky tunnel and reached a turnstile, where a guard—looking equally shocked—examined their tickets.
Except for a waiting train and idle porters, the iron-and-glass-roofed platform was empty. The rumble of myriad conversations was normally deafening, but this morning, the hiss and an occasional chug from the train’s engine were the only sounds.
They reached a first-class compartment, the door of which was ajar.
Carolyn paused, peering into the small, shadowy chamber, seemingly undecided about whether to board.
Then she drew a breath and climbed inside. Emily and De Quincey followed and sat opposite her.
As they settled onto the thick, blue cushions, Carolyn pointed toward the empty seats next to them. “Well, at least there’s one thing we don’t need to worry about—someone joining us.”
The moment De Quincey removed his laudanum bottle from his overcoat, a guard appeared at the open door. After a suspicious gaze at the bottle, the guard told them, “We’re ready to depart.” His tone implied that what he actually meant was Are you ready to depart, or are you having second thoughts?
“The sooner we leave, the sooner we’ll arrive at our destination,” Carolyn told him.
The guard nodded, closed the door, and locked it, the scrape of his key seeming louder than usual. Through the barred windows, they watched him proceed to the next compartment and lock it also.
Carolyn reached into her purse, surprising De Quincey and Emily when she pulled out a large key that looked to be the same as the one that the guard had used to lock them in.
“Where did you find that?” Emily asked in amazement.
“Last summer, Edward requested it from a railway executive who’s one of his clients. Can you guess how the executive reacted? ‘Good idea,’ he told Edward. ‘I never board a train without a key either.’ If there’s an emergency, we can raise a window and reach out to unlock the door.”
The compartment lurched as the train moved forward. Carolyn pressed her hands solidly on her knees. Emily stared at the cocoa-fiber mat on the floor. De Quincey sipped from his laudanum bottle.
“I’m sure that nothing will happen so soon after yesterday’s incidents,” he said.
“Oh?” Carolyn asked. “What makes you think so?”
“Because murder as a fine art depends on suspense along with pity and terror. What grips an audience more, a shocking surprise or the tension of waiting for something terrible to happen?”
The train increased its speed. The clouds hung lower. Rain speckled the dusty windows, forming streaks.
“No—whoever is responsible for this,” De Quincey said, “will wait for people to feel the full impact of the previous horrors.”
The compartment tilted as the train rounded a curve. Now both Carolyn and Emily stared at the mat on the floor.
“What’s more, the next incident won’t be on the Euston line, or the Waterloo line, or the Paddington line,” De Quincey said. “Rather, it’ll occur on one of the other six lines that radiate from London. For the nation to be truly paralyzed, other railways will need to be attacked. Carolyn, how long does it take to reach Sedwick Hill?”
“Twenty minutes,” she answered. Looking up, she seemed to welcome the distraction of the question.
“Then we have time for you to tell us.”
“Tell you…”
“What happened to you and your father after I left that accursed house in Greek Street.”
“My God,” Ryan murmured as a police wagon carried him and Becker along a dirt road that paralleled the railway tracks.
The devastation seemed to stretch forever: A jumble of carriages scorched by flames had been thrown from the rails, upended, overturned, twisted, and ruptured. A locomotive appeared to have struck the motionless train and now lay on its side in the middle of a charred field, a deep furrow behind it, its boiler split open. Rescue workers searched the field for more victims while hospital wagons rumbled away with the injured. Telegraph poles had been snapped, their wires tangled among the wreckage. A far section of the field—near the first locomotive—had a row of what seemed to be bodies covered with sheets.
“Stop here,” Ryan told the driver.
He and Becker jumped down and walked forward, gaping at the chaos.
“I was never in a war, but this is what I imagine it looks like,” Becker said, appalled.
“No, this is worse,” a dirt-and-blood-covered train guard told them, approaching. “Are you the detectives from Scotland Yard?”
Ryan and Becker showed their badges.
“In the Crimea, I saw craters in the mud, and arms and legs of bodies sticking up from it. A lot
of craters. A lot of…” The guard gestured with his bandaged hands as if trying to force his memories away. “After a while, I got to the point that I thought it was normal. But this…five miles outside London, with an English hedgerow over there and a field where cattle will start grazing in a month and where women and children don’t expect to be slaughtered…no, this is worse.”
“Do you know what might have caused the fire?” Becker asked.
“There’s no ‘might have’ about it. Come over here to this carriage. Look out for that sharp chunk of metal sticking up from the grass. Be careful of that wheel.”
As Ryan and Becker made their way through the wreckage, they saw bandaged people being lifted into another hospital wagon.
“That’s where it started.” The guard pointed to the middle compartment of a carriage that had shattered windows, twisted doors, a scorched side, and an upwardly buckled roof.
Ryan and Becker stepped closer.
“The heat made the door pop open even though it was locked,” the guard said. “See that pile of ash on what’s left of the seat to the right? That was a travel bag.”
“The door was locked?” Ryan asked. “Whoever was inside couldn’t have escaped, but I don’t see a body.”
“Because there wasn’t anyone in that compartment,” the guard replied. “When I locked it, I’m certain it was empty—and I’m certain the windows were closed, so the fire couldn’t have been started by engine sparks flying inside.”
“No one was in the compartment? Then how the devil did a travel bag get in there?” Becker asked.
“Exactly what I’d like to know,” the guard answered. “As far as I can determine, someone went in there and put a bag on the luggage rack at the top. Then whoever it was left the compartment and either stepped into a farther compartment or else somehow got past the guard at the exit from Paddington Station. The guard inspects the tickets before he lets anyone out of the station to make certain no one sneaked aboard the incoming train and tried to get a free ride. He’d definitely have asked questions if someone had tried to leave with a ticket for a train that hadn’t even departed from the station.”
“Whoever it was might have claimed he suddenly felt sick,” Becker suggested. “That’s what happened at Waterloo Station yesterday. Or he could have told the guard he needed to return to his lodging because he’d suddenly realized he hadn’t turned off the gas.”
Ryan gave Becker a nod of respect. “If so, it’s possible the guard remembers someone making those kinds of excuses and can tell us what the person looked like.”
“But what was in the bag that might have started the fire?” Becker wondered. “Another bomb with a slow-burning fuse?”
“I didn’t hear an explosion,” the guard told them. “But even if the noise of the engine kept me from hearing a bomb, do you see any sign of an explosion in this compartment?”
“None,” Ryan said.
“Maybe a slow-burning fuse was linked to a container of loose gunpowder,” the guard offered. “It wouldn’t have exploded. It would only have burst into flames.”
“Five miles outside London.” Ryan shook his head. “It would need to have been an awfully slow-burning fuse.”
The train entered a tunnel, darkness suddenly enveloping Thomas, Emily, and Carolyn, the noise of the engine intensifying. Both De Quincey and his daughter stared toward the far side of their compartment.
“What’s wrong?” Carolyn asked.
“That’s where Daniel Harcourt’s body was dumped from the train,” De Quincey answered.
“When the train stopped, we ran back to try to help him,” Emily said, continuing to stare at the dark windows, “but there wasn’t anything we could do.”
Daylight returned as the train exited the tunnel. Instead of the blood that had appeared on the windows Thursday night, raindrops now streaked across them. De Quincey and Emily took a moment before they looked at Carolyn again.
“Thomas, you wanted to know what happened to me after you departed for Eton,” she said. “Brunell was absent for three days. On the fourth, he returned in a state of fright. He ordered me to help him carry all the legal papers from the back room and stack them next to the nearest fireplace. He told me to look carefully through a gap in a front curtain and warn him if anyone approached the house. As soon as every document was burned, he dragged me out the back door.”
“Do you have any idea why he was so afraid?” Emily asked.
Carolyn shook her head.
“He worked for moneylenders. Perhaps one of them was furious because Brunell vouched for someone who disappeared after borrowing considerable funds,” De Quincey suggested.
“Whatever the reason, we hurried to a mail coach and went to Brighton,” Carolyn said. “But as soon as we arrived, we walked to an inn several miles away. The next morning, we walked to another town and boarded another mail coach. That became the pattern—walk, mail coach, walk, mail coach. Our route seemed aimless. After a week, we arrived in Bristol, and that’s where he sold me.”
“What?” Emily asked.
“I eventually learned that some of the work Brunell did for moneylenders involved investigating people who hoped to borrow money against inheritances they claimed were due to them. It turned out that he’d crossed paths with a man who should have inherited a large estate from his father, the owner of a shipping company in Bristol.”
“What do you mean, should have?” De Quincey asked.
“The man was the only son,” Carolyn explained. “There’d been three daughters, but the father had no fondness for females, and he showed only mild distress when they died from various illnesses over the years. It was a grim household. To make it grimmer, the son fell in love with a shopgirl. The father ordered his son to turn his back on her because of her inferior station. Instead, the son ran away and married her, hoping that the fact of the marriage would soften his father. To the contrary, the father became even more furious and disinherited him, naming his business partner as the new heir. Spiteful, he didn’t bequeath his estate to his wife, fearing that his wife would be lenient to his son after his death.”
The train swayed as it rounded a curve. Carolyn reached for the overhead strap.
“Events foiled his plan, however,” she continued. “His business partner died when a sling broke and a container of goods fell on him as it was being loaded onto a ship. During the subsequent confusion—planning for the funeral, restructuring the company, and so on—the father neglected to name a new heir and died a week later when his carriage overturned.
“This was ten years after the father had disinherited the son. By then, the shopgirl was dead from cholera. The son had tried to reestablish himself in his father’s affections, but with no success. Seeking a loan from a moneylender in London, he met Brunell, who read a copy of the will and interpreted it to mean that because no other inheritor was mentioned, the widow was the next in line.”
De Quincey sounded puzzled. “But given the law of succession, didn’t the father have a male relative, no matter how distant, who could be considered the next heir, even if he wasn’t named?”
“Yes, but Brunell didn’t expect to win,” Carolyn replied. “His purpose was to threaten to introduce the will into the confusion of the courts. He hoped that the distant male heir—a third cousin, it turned out—would be willing to negotiate with the widow rather than have the estate destroyed by court costs and prolonged delays, as often happens.”
“But how was this going to help the son?” Emily asked. “He’d been disinherited and still wouldn’t receive anything.”
“That was Brunell’s stroke of brilliance. The son’s wife had died without producing children. Brunell suggested that he pretend I was his daughter. Do you see? The widow had lost three daughters. Her husband had been an uncaring tyrant. By running away, her son had brought further misery into her life. She’d never imagined that in her late years she would know happiness, but now she discovered that she had a granddaughter.”
> “Was Brunell’s scheme successful?” De Quincey asked.
Carolyn nodded. “For the sake of me, her supposed granddaughter, the widow welcomed her son. Brunell pointed out to the cousin that the court might favor a widow and a granddaughter—a granddaughter who’d been living in squalor because of the heartlessness of her grandfather—rather than reward a distant relative. In exchange for not contesting the will, the widow received a handsome yearly income, far more than she could have expected from her husband’s niggardly business partner. It was more than enough for the three of us—the son, the mother, and me—to live on. The woman, whom I learned to call Grandmama, was deceived, yes, but the deception did no harm. Indeed, it gave her pleasure, and she gave me a life I could never have dreamed of. She educated me. She encouraged me to seek the independence that she herself had never been allowed to pursue. I made friends with the cousin who inherited the business and persuaded him to teach me how the financial world conducted itself. As I grew older, various financiers and lawyers courted me, and I learned a great deal from them as well. Finally I met Edward, the brilliant man who became my husband and who was wise enough to understand that independence meant more to me than anything. Together, we built quite an enterprise.”
“What happened to Brunell?” Emily asked.
“He never stopped looking over his shoulder. The moment the son paid him his fee, Brunell boarded a ship and fled to the United States.” Carolyn frowned. “Do you feel the train losing speed?”
A cottage appeared outside the window.
“Aha. No cause for concern,” Carolyn told them. “We’re here.”
The drizzle persisted as they hurried from the station toward a covered carriage waiting for them. The driver loaded their bags and urged the horses into motion. As Emily put a comforting rug over De Quincey, he peered outside.
Sedwick Hill was another village that had once been an inconvenient distance from London but, thanks to the railway, was now within easy reach of the metropolis. Men who wore business suits bought cottages here and in the evening arrived from their offices to appreciate the flower gardens that their wives hired local laborers to plant and tend. Even more appreciated was the pure air, so different from the gritty miasma of London.
Ruler of the Night Page 16